


The Roses Shall Weep

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sadness, Sorrow, basically a lot of sadness and grief ok?, sads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4700549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief is never easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roses Shall Weep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



Willas sits by the bed, and he feels empty. His knees, clad in brown, and the floor, pale wood smoothing over dips in pale rose-coloured sandstone, covered over again with soft rugs, and the hair of his daughter, curled on his lap, are all he can see. He dares not look up, look at the bed.

Sansa, he knows, looks almost alive. Clad in the green she glows ( _glowed_ ) in, face peaceful and happy, her hair, bright and burnished red-gold. There is still, on her cheeks, the slightest hint of a flush from the fever ( _that killed her, it killed her, and she still looks almost to life_ ).

Willas tries to breathe, and dares not look at her. In the room next door Leyton is crying, five years old, and not knowing why his mother isn’t coming to comfort him. He hears heels on stone, the swishing of skirts, and Leyton soothed to quiet. He assumes someone – a cousin, a nurse, maybe Alerie, maybe Margaery, maybe Garlan, or Leonette, or any other of the family – has gone to soothe Leyton. Lyn rests on his lap, curled in her blankets, red-gold hair, like her mother’s, like her namesake.

 

* * *

 

_“Please, Willas,” Sansa had said. “The Lannisters are gone. My family’s name is clear. I’m_ safe _. Please. For my mother, please.” The look in her eyes is as fierce as it is fluid, ready to turn the not-tears into full tears with only a denial._

_Willas’ hand frames her cheek, strokes just under her eyes to tease the not-tears away. “We can,” he’d murmured. “We can call her Catelyn. But mayhaps Lyn for short, hm? Otherwise we might confuse them.” His smile is just soft, and just bright enough to make Sansa smile, even as her eyes light with joy. Even as she cradled their daughter to her breast she reached for him, tugged him close enough she could press a warm kiss to his cheek._

_“Thank you,” she had said, her words a soft, warm breath over his cheek. “Thank you.”_

 

* * *

 

In the silence, now that Leyton has hushed from screams to quiet muffled sobs, Willas can hear clearly the clicking-clacking-click-clack-click of heels on the sandstone. Silk skirts sweep in, small feet are touched to the ground, and Leyton pads over to his father. Alerie Hightower kneels beside her son.

“Willas?”

Her voice is soft. Her hand gently reaches to ease the dozing Lyn from Willas’ lap, even as Leyton takes his father’s hand. Willas does not respond to his mother. He does respond when Leyton speaks.

“Father?” Leyton is young, but has learned well enough to speak ( _Sansa’s tutelage,_ Willas remembered, _When he started picking up words she taught him all of them_ ). “Father, what’s wrong?”

Willas’ thumb strokes gently over his son’s hand, and he doesn’t say a word.

“Papa?” The syllables are small, taught by cousins, and loved for their simplicity when Leyton was smaller. There is a slight hitch in Leyton’s breath. “Papa, why is mother sleeping?”

A tear rolls down Willas’ cheek. From the corner of his downturned gaze he can see Alerie gently rocking Lyn, soothing her after being shifted from her father’s lap. He looks up. He looks at the headboard of the bed, carved with wolves playing among roses. He looks at the bedspread, embroidered over long months by Sansa’s careful fingers. He blinks a tear away, and looks at Sansa’s face. Looks at Lyn, in his mother’s arms. Looks at Leyton, holding his hand, and with big blue eyes far more mature than they should be.

It is very hard to tell his son what has happened.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Niamh as a gift of sads because I had an idea. Comments are much appreciated!


End file.
